


Outtakes and Prompts for These Violent Delights

by pasiphile



Series: These Violent Delights Outtakes and Prompts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the scenes that didn't make it into the final draft, as well as filled prompts. i.e. "get your free fluff, porn and crack here!"</p><p>more will be posted soon!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Menagerie, pt 1

**Author's Note:**

> ragingbitchfest : how about Jim gets sick and makes Sebastian take care of him?  
> buttsinthetardis: Jim getting the flu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ragingbitchfest: Violent kinky sex with kittens

The door crashes open and Jim forces you through the bedroom door, straight to the bed. His short nails scrabble at your neck, the aggressive little _shit_. You pull them off, irritated, trap them behind his back. He struggles, but you kick at the back of his knee and push and he goes down, landing heavily on the mattress.

You pounce before he can get up again, pinning his wrists to the bed, smirking. He's got that fire in his eyes, which means this could very interesting. You get a knee between his legs and push up, and –

_Mrrp_

You pause. “Did you just  _mewl_?”

“What?” Jim asks blearily.

“I swear I could've - ”

_meep_

Jim blinks and frowns. “Unless there's something  _very_ wrong with your vocal chords...”

You lean sideways and reach beneath the bed. Your hand closes on something soft and you pull it out. Holding up a kitten by the scruff of its neck.

It swipes at you.

“What,” you say flatly, “is a kitten doing beneath our bed.”

“No idea,” Jim says, studying the kitten with wide fascinated eyes.

“Sure? Haven't been using it for experiments or something?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don't know, you've pulled some weird shit over the years.” You turn it around and raise it to eye-level. It takes another swipe at your nose.

You put it down carefully on the duvet. It prances about for a bit, and then curls up right in the middle of the bed, its tiny eyes closed, fluffy tail curled around its body.

“I never had a pet,” Jim says thoughtfully.

“They're a nuisance. Food, cleaning up after... Not worth the bother.”

Jim runs his finger over the kitten's head and it starts to purr. “So you did have pets?”

“Dogs. On my uncle's estate, we went there each holiday.”

“Not a cat person, then?”

You grin. “You mean, am I good at dealing with little aggressive arrogant weirdly moody creatures on a regular basis?”

Jim looks up from his petting. “Not sure I like what you're implying, Seb.”

You snort. The kitten opens one eye and fixes it on you. It's a strangely calculating look.

“I could chuck it out the window,” you say. “Cats land on their paws, don't they?”

The kitten gives a very affronted  _mrrp_.

“No, don't,” Jim says. “There might be something in what you said.”

“Sorry?”

“Experimenting. Many people have a cat, it would be an ideal opportunity.” He scratches its neck. “Death by kitten.”

“You'll get cat hair on your suits,” you try.

“I can put it on my lap and stroke it when I meet with clients.”

“Well, if you ever want a piranha-pond I'm leaving, just so you know.”

The kitten rolls over and bares its fluffy belly.

“Look at the little thing,” Jim coos.

“Yes, very adorable,” you say impatiently. “Now can you put it back on the floor and can we get on with what we were doing?”

He looks up from beneath his eyebrows. “Getting a bit agitated, Seb?”

“Don't fancy being cockblocked by a sodding kitten.”

He sighs. “Fine.” He puts the kitten back down on the floor with exceeding care, and then he grabs your shirt and pulls you off-balance, ending you up spread out underneath him.

You buck up and he presses down, goes straight for the throat. You arch again, his hand goes to your belt, and things would have gone  _splendidly_ if it wasn't for a soft muffled sound and the brush of something soft against your foot.

You jerk reflexively and only narrowly manage to avoid kneeing Jim in the bollocks. He pulls back and frowns. “What - ”

You sit up and nod at the end of the bed, where the kitten is sitting, watching the proceedings with every sign of interest.

Jim rolls his eyes and sweeps it off the bed with his foot. He turns back to you and grins, baring his teeth. “Now, where were - ”

_thump_

You look past Jim, at the kitten, which has stubbornly got back up onto the bed.

Jim pushes it away. It jumps up again. Jim picks it up and drops it on the floor, but again it clambers up, and when Jim reaches for it a third time it tries to bite his fingers.

“Right,” you say, and push Jim off you. You pick the kitten up by the scruff of its neck, cross the room, open the door and toss it into the living room.

“There,” you say, leaning back against the closed door. “No more bother.”

“Then get over here, will you?” Jim flashes his teeth. I'm getting impatient.”

You saunter over with a grin. Jim hooks his hand behind your knee and pulls you onto bed, on top of him. He winds his legs around your waist, crossing his ankles behind your back.

A soft scrabbling noise makes you pull back from his neck. “What...”

“Ignore it,” Jim snarls. He grabs your neck and forcefully pulls you down again. And after a minute or so, the scrabbling noise stops – which you barely notice, given where Jim's hand ended up. He tugs your shirt off, tearing the sleeve in the process. You wrestle with his belt, eager to get inside, and -

_crash_

Jim sits up in surprise, headbutting you in the nose.

“What the fuck?” you say, clutching your nose. Not broken, but still.

Jim gets off the bed and opens the door. You get up and follow him.

The carpet is covered in shards of what once was a precious Ming vase. And in the middle of the wreckage, daintily licking its paw, is the kitten.

“Still sure you want to keep it?” you ask idly.

Jim glares at the kitten. The kitten in question gives it an innocent blue-eyed stare straight back. 

_Meep?_

_  
_


	2. Bedside Manners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ragingbitchfest : how about Jim gets sick and makes Sebastian take care of him?
> 
> buttsinthetardis: Jim getting the flu

It starts with a cough.

Just a tiny one, ignorable – Jim shouts often enough that it's actually surprising he doesn't lose his voice more often.

After the cough comes sneezing. And his usually pale skin turning very pink.

But it takes until he suddenly bolts to the bathroom and doubles over over the toilet that you take action.

You go down on your knees next to him with a wet washcloth in your hands and rub his back while he retches.

“So you are human after all,” you say pleasantly.

Jim raises his head just long enough to glare at you – though the effect is slightly diminished by how  _miserable_ he looks, sweaty hair, deathly pale – but then he doubles over again.

“There there.”

He coughs and spits. His fingers are trembling. He straightens up and you hook your leg around his back, give him something to lean again. He closes his eyes and leans back.

“You've got the flu,” you say, carefully cleaning his face.

“Like hell,” he mutters. Which says enough, because Jim hardly ever curses.

“Bed rest,” you say sternly. “Sleep. And – ” You pause, try to think of what to do in these kind of situations. You've very little personal experience, constitution of an ox, but you have a vague suspicion chicken broth is involved somewhere.

“Can't. Work,” Jim says. He pulls a face and runs his tongue over his lips.

“I can deal with the most urgent things and the rest can wait.” You stand up and offer him your hands. “Go on, don't be an idiot about this.”

He lets you pull him upright and he leans against you. You run a hand over his forehead. “Christ, you're burning up.”

“'s Nothing.”

“ _Jim_.”

“It's only a fever, it's not - “

“Right,” you say, and swing him up into your arms, like he's the bride you're about to carry over the threshold.

He splutters in response. Again, it's a sign he isn't quite himself because normally he would have jabbed his fingers into your elbow or reached for your throat or something – he always is a dirty fighter.

But no, he allows himself to be carried to the bed, even while making a show of protesting. You gently put him down.

“This better not be leading to where I think it might be leading,” he mutters darkly.

“Er, no thanks. The smell of vomit is a very effective mood killer.”

You sit down on the bed and start unlacing his shoes.

“I can't get sick,” he says.

You pull his shoe off. “Really?”

“It's stupid. I don't have time for this.”

“So you're immune, are you?” The other shoe comes off as well. You pull his socks off and find out his feet are freezing. You rub them and his toes curl.

“Maybe I've been poisoned,” he continues. His voice sounds a little off, must be all the sniffling and coughing.

“ _How_?” You swing your leg up and reach for his belt. “You haven't been outside for four days.”

“The food.”

“I eat the same things you do.” You pull his belt off and lift his hips, slide his trousers down.

“Maybe you poisoned me.”

“And why exactly would I do that?” You kneel over his thighs and start unbuttoning his shirt.

“Maybe you're tired of being my right hand, maybe you want to take over.”

You scoff. “Yeah, right. Sit up.” You pull the shirt off. “So, any other symptoms you've been hiding?”

He pulls a face. “I'm not a child.”

“Yeah? Then stop acting like one.”

He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. “Headaches. Beginnings of muscle cramps.”

“Painkiller?”

His eyes snap open again and a strange expression crosses his face. It almost looks like fear. “No.”

“Fine.” You pull the blanket up over him and slide off the bed.

“Where are you going?” he asks, sounding a little sulky.

“Getting a bucket, just in case.” You turn around and give him a considering look. He doesn't like being seen when he's vulnerable, although he can always use someone to take his frustrations out on. It's hard to predict what he wants, what's best for him.

And the best solution is not to speculate. “You want me close or out of the way?” you ask calmly.

He chews his lip. “Close,” he says, at last. “But quiet.”

“Will do.”

You find a bucket and a large bottle of water and take his laptop along. You get your own shoes off and crawl on the bed, laptop balanced precariously. You shift around until you're comfortable and Jim is leaning against your shoulder.

You run through Jim's latest projects. Most of them are still in the planning stage, which means they can wait, but some of them require immediate action. Luckily you've done this often enough to manage.

Jim, meanwhile, continues to shiver and sniffle and making other pitiful little noises, and it's... not so much  _annoying_ you, really, but it just feels wrong. James Moriarty should not be a vulnerable little ball of misery.

He turns, shifting about. You shoot him a look and catch the dissatisfied expression on his face. “Something wrong?”

“You mean, apart from my head splitting and my skin being on fire and the inside of my throat trying to escape?” he snaps.

“Yes.”

He glares at you. “My shoulder is cramping up. You're not that comfortable a pillow.”

“Right, give me a sec.”

You finish the file you were working on, put the laptop on the floor, and push Jim off you. He grumbles again, rubbing his neck.

You scoot up, get one of your legs behind his back and pull him in again, so he's leaning back against your chest, between your spread knees, head against your shoulder.

He sighs and shifts, shoulder blades moving against your chest.

“Better?” you ask.

He gives a curt nod.

You trail the line of his arm and shoulder, thumb slipping in beneath the edge of the blanket he's still huddled under. It takes a bit of searching before you finally find the tense knot of muscle in his shoulder. You press down, gently – he can be surprisingly sensitive, sometimes – and start to rub in tiny circles.

He sighs deeply and relaxes.

“So,” you ask carefully, pressing your other palm against his spine. “Why no painkillers? They would help.”

“They scramble my head,” he mumbles. “Can't – can't think properly.”

“And you can the way you are now?”

He shrugs, awkwardly. You slip your arm around his waist and pull him a little more snugly against you. He seems to go a little more relaxed with each sweep of your fingers over his shoulder, until it seems like he's about to drop off.

But then he jerks suddenly and blinks.

“You were falling asleep,” you say softly.

He shakes his head. “Don't want to.”

“You  _need_  your sleep, Jim, now more than ever.” You lean a little sideways, try to see his face. He's gone tight-lipped, an expression similar to the one when you brought up painkillers – ah.

“Nightmares?” you ask.

He nods. “Fever dreams. They're not – not pleasant.”

“I'll be here.” You smooth your hand over his waist, to his hip, back again. He takes your wrist “Wake you up when you're getting twitchy.”

He nods again, eyes falling closed already. His breathing slows, his grip on your wrist loosens. You stroke his sweaty hair away from his eyes and watch until he's fully asleep, safe in your arms.


	3. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> duckhouse: prompt that I (and I am sure, several others) will need after the final chapter: After however the story ends, Sebastian wakes up from the nightmare and hugs Jim just wraps his arms around him and mumbles something like "just a dream, Sebby, I promised I wouldn't leave" or something as comforting because /UGH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS for the end of These Violent Delights. And warnings for unashamed fluff.

_the sound of a gunshot, clear and unmistakable_

You startle awake, staring into the dark, feeling like your stomach dropped out. What did you -

“Easy,” a voice mumbles, and an arm tightens around your waist.

You roll over and burrow closer, eyes closed. You don't dare opening them, just in case, but your other senses are doing overtime. The sound of a heartbeat, reassuringly slow and even. That achingly familiar scent of a warm living body, the feel of it, chest moving in time with his breathing. The lingering taste on your lips.

“Seb.” A hand runs roughly through your hair. “Dreaming again?”

“Yeah.” You open your eyes. It's too dark to see properly, and you still don't trust yourself. “Can you - ”

A sigh. The bed creaks, and then the light flickers on, filling the bedroom with a warm golden glow. You push up unto your elbow and just  _look_.

In the shadows cast by the light the lines in Jim's face seem even deeper than usual, showing every single last one of his thirty-nine years. Not that it matters, not when he's here, alive and well.

You settle down a little more comfortably in his arms, your cheek pressed against his chest. His finger trails the shell of your ear.

“Better?” he asks, but it sounds more affectionate than mocking.

You run your hand over his chest and he catches it, intertwining your fingers with his.

You close your eyes again. “If you ever - ”

“I won't,” he interrupts you. “Not again.”

“You better,” you say softly. “Because if you – I can’t – ”

“I know. And you won't.” His hand squeezes the back of your neck. “Trust me,” he adds, a hint of laughter in his voice.

You dig your nails into his hand in retaliation. “I trusted you before and you put a bullet through your brain.”

“But that’s not _quite_ true, is it?” He strokes your hair away from your forehead. “Go back to sleep, Seb. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“Sure about that?” you mutter.

“ _Yes_.” He runs his hand over your back. “And the morning after that, and after that. If I’m going to go anywhere, you’re coming along.”

“Good,” you say quietly. His hand settles on your shoulder, warm and heavy. “You and me against the world, eh?” you say, words starting to slur.

“Exactly.”

You curl up as close to him as you can and he pulls you in, other arm coming up to encircle your waist, holding you close. It feel safe, familiar. Home.

You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.


	4. Menagerie, pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jimmotherfuckingmoriarty: I am not ready so I request anything with baby goats to compensate the pain. (no who wants to write about mormor and baby goats. Only me)

The advantage of living on the fourth floor of a high-ceilinged building is, of course, the view.

The  _disadvantage_  is having to jog up four flights of stairs when the lift is fucked, which is the case today. And has been since yesterday, but Jim is both too proud and too paranoid to let a mechanic into the flat, which means he's trying to sort it out himself. With not much success so far.

You go past the second floor and a smellhits you. It's not unusual, the second and third floor serve as Jim's laboratories, and strange chemical smells are pretty much par for the course. Still, there's something a little bit  _organic_ about the current smell.

You go back and walk into the main room. And stare.

“Hullo, Seb,” Jim says calmly, leaning next to the window.

“What the  _hell_  is that?”

He smirks. “Well, let's see: it's small and white, has horns, and goes  _baah_. What could it possibly be?”

You stare at the goat. It obediently goes  _baah_ , right on cue.

“It's a baby goat,” you say flatly.

“Ooh,  _very_ well deduced.”

“ _Why_ do we have a baby goat?”

“Why not?” Jim grins.

“Why – did you develop a sudden fetish for baby animals or something?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I might be depraved, Seb, but I do have some standards. It’s for a commission.”

“A client wants you to do something to a _goat_?” you ask incredulously.

He rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder how you managed to stay alive for this long with that little amount of brain, Sebastian.”

You look back at the goat, trying to wrap your head around it. Why a goat? It’s sort of adorable, yes, but that’s hardly going to be the reason. So why…

And then the penny drops. “They eat everything, goats, don't they?” you ask slowly.

“Exactly,” he says with an approving grin. “And that's why it's here. I'm curious if I can use it as evidence disposal.”

You give him a look. “So you're feeding it, what, injection needles? Poison bottles?”

He shrugs. “Rope, for one thing. Seems to work.”

 _Beh_ goes the goat. You shake your head. “So what’s next? Puppies? Ducklings?”

“Well, we _are_ eating veal tonight,” Jim says with one of his best demonic grins, and you snort with laughter.

"You're unbelievable, you know that?"

A soft, by now familiar  _thump_ makes you look around, still chuckling. Jim's kitten – he's starting referring to it as  _she_ but it's most definitely still an  _it_ to you – has somehow managed to escape the main flat and made its way downstairs.

She –  _it –_ prowls slowly closer to the white horned intruder. It sits down right in front of the goat and gives it that curiously arrogant searching look it’s so good at.

Goats eat  _everything_ , so maybe...

But the goat doesn’t do anything but stare placidly at the little bundle of fluff sitting between its hooves. The kitten seems to approve of the goat as well. It butts its tiny head against the goat's leg and rubs against it – which means he's marking the goat as its property, apparently, as Jim explained to you.

The goat gives another pleased  _baah_.

“So why did it have to be a _baby_ goat?” you ask. “Why not a big one?”

The kitten, apparently bored with the newest guest, locates you and hops onto the desk. You roll your eyes but give it a hand to sniff.

“Easier to transport. Nicer to look at. More tractable, goats can be infamously stubborn.”

You run your knuckles over the kitten's spine. “But less efficient digestion?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. It’s just initial research, we’ll see how this goes.”

The kitten hops into your lap, tiny paws kneading your thighs. You scratch its neck and chin and it starts to make a noise like an entire legion of bees took up residence in its stomach.

Jim grins. “Starting to bond?”

“Fuck off.”

 He pushes off the wall and saunters over to you. “We should really give her a name, you know.”

“ _Cat_ will do fine for me. Or _annoyance_. Or _pest_.” The kitten gives a _meow_ in protest as you stop stroking. Jim clucks his tongue and you start scratching its neck again. “Or Jim Two,” you add, with a sly smile. “Cause I’m starting to see striking similarities.”

“Oh really?”

“Hmm. Especially the claws. And the – ” But then you have to stop, because the baby goat came close without you noticing and is now hopefully butting your knee, making whatever the goat-equivalent of puppy eyes is at you.

Jim nearly chokes on his laughter.


	5. Relaxation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no excuse for this.

The entire bedroom is starting to smell of oil. It isn’t an unpleasant smell, but you suspect the sheets are going to be a total loss.

Again.

Jim’s fingers dig into a particularly stubborn knot of muscles and you groan, and even though you can see nothing of Jim you just  _know_ he’s smirking.

“Where the hell did you learn this, anyway?” you ask, half muffled by the pillow.

“Never you mind.”

“Well, if I ever meet whoever taught you, I’m going to give ‘em a big wet kiss on the mouth.”

“No you won’t.” He sits up and turns around, and then attacks the back of your thighs with all the intensity of someone kneading dough. You bite down on your pillow.

“You really should have said something earlier,” Jim says, giving a little tut as he finds another knot.

You turn your head to the side and spit out a feather. “It’s hardly a life-threatening injury, is it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” You push up unto your elbows and try to get a look at him, and you get just a glimpse of an angry scowl before he pushes you back down.

“Lie  _still_. And the point is that I expect you to tell me these things.”

“It’s just some stiff muscles. And anyway, I thought you could read my mind?”

He works in silence for a minute, but it’s getting harder and harder to concentrate as every trace of tension is slowly leaving your body.

“You’re very good at hiding this,” he says at last.

“Had to. I was commanding a platoon, I had to seem infallible.”

“You’re not in the army anymore, Seb.” He crawls over you and gives you a pat on your arse. “Turn over.”

You do, slowly and laboriously. You feel like you’re floating in a cloud of bone-deep contentment, total relaxation, and just a little bit of arousal, because hands, and skin.

You roll your head to the side to look at where he’s kneeling next to you. “Sorry,” you say lazily. “Won’t happen again.”

“It better not.”

His hands sweep over your stomach and up, and you sigh as his fingers dig into your shoulders.

“The point is... is that...”

“The point is?” Jim asks, running his hand down your arm.

“Can’t remember.”

You flop down, limp as a ragdoll, and let him arrange you exactly how he wants. Not tired, exactly, just... blissed-out.

He swing his legs off the bed and starts undressing. You watch him from the corner of your eye. “You do realise that I can’t lift a finger right now, let alone...”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” he says, folding his shirt and putting it on the chair, the anally-retentive little bastard.

“That’s hardly fair. You can’t just -   _dissolve_  me and then expect me to - “

“I don’t expect you to do anything.”

“Lie back and - ” He gets back on the bed, kneeling over your knees. “- and think of England?”

“Or Ireland. I’m not fussy.” And, frowning in concentration, he wraps his fingers around your cock and strokes upwards, with exactly the same slow, deliberate touch as he was using before. You groan and close your eyes.

“Never would’ve thought of you as a  _masseuse_.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says lazily, hand working steadily up and down.

You don’t manage anything beyond a agreeing _hmm_. It’s a bit embarrassing, how quickly you basically _melted_ , but, well, it’s Jim. Although it feels more comfortable than most things he comes up with – sex with Jim tends to be intense but now you just feel completely at ease.

You make another happy little noise and he laughs, softly. “Enjoying this, are you?”

“Mmf?”

He runs his thumb over the underside of your cock, over the head, back again. Still slow, and it’s really unusual for Jim to be this, well,  _gentle_.

Your orgasm, when it comes, takes you by surprise. There’s no build-up of tension, no pressing need. It just leaves you even more contented.

The only thing you have energy left for is to reach for his hand and pull him closer. He lies down half on top of you, and crinkles his nose. “You’re slippery.”

You can’t even be arsed to answer back, and you drift into sleep with his weight on your chest.


	6. Surveillance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be blamed on me thinking too much on how Jim keeps track of Sebastian and trying to sort out the logistics and then this happened. IDEK

_A rustle from the woods catches your attention. A barely visible shape disappears just as you turn. It could be an animal, but with a bit of bad luck it's a guard._

_“You coming?" Sophia calls softly. The woods stay silent._

“I’m just going to check this out. I’ll catch up with you,” you say.

After a few seconds you turn around and walk back to the trees. You find what you're looking for a couple of yards in.

A shiny black patent leather shoe, dangling just above your head. There's a leg attached, too, spotless expensive Italian wool. You look up.

Anyone else would at least have the decency to look sheepish, but not Jim Moriarty.

“Hello,” he says calmly. Sitting on a branch eight foot above the ground, swinging his legs.

“Wh- Ho- Y- ”

He cocks his head, like a curious bird, and  _never_ has that expression been more appropriate. “Are you choking?”

“ _How_  did you get up there without tearing your clothes?”

“I have my secrets,” he says smugly.

“But – you –  _Why?”_

“To keep an eye on my investment, of course.” He smiles. “You didn’t think I would just neglect you, did you?”

You stare at him. And then you turn around and walk decidedly away.

“ _Nice arse_ ,” he yells after you.

You ignore him.


	7. Seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is partly working out Moran's sexual ethics, and part my beta's mind which took a sudden strange turn. Crack, pure and simple.

_You make your way to the bar and lean against it, close to the woman. You turn slightly and try to meet her eye. She doesn't play coy, though._

_“Go on, then, amaze me," she sneers, accent clear-cut like glass._

_“Pardon?”_

_“The wonderfully original pick-up line you were thinking of while you were perving at me.”_

_“I was going to go with_ _hi_ _, but now that sort of feels inadequate.”_

_She chuckles and you wave over the bartender. “Another?”_

_Still grinning, she nods. “What the hell.”_

_She's not Sophia. Classier but less honest, prettier but not nearly as much guts. But it's just for tonight, so she'll do._

_You give her your best toothpaste-ad smile and say, “You come here often?' She laughs and her hand brushes your arm, and unless you're really mistaken, you'd say you've pulled._

She doesn't really bother with small talk, which is just fine by you, and when after a couple of minutes she suggests to go outside, you don't have to think twice. She slides elegantly off her barstool – taller than you expected, practically towering over everyone else in her high heels. Not that you mind.

You follow her outside, to the dark empty parking lot, and she turns around. Before she can talk, you swing her around and go for her mouth. She doesn't kiss back though, jus puts her hands on your shoulders and makes a little  _mph_  of protest. So you pull back a bit and give her a searching look.

“Sorry, was I misreading the signals here?” you ask.

“I think you might be in for a bit of a surprise,” she says, a little breathy.

“Oh, that?” Your hand drifts down to what's most definitely a bulge that shouldn't be there on a woman and she, he, whatever gasps. “Yeah, I'm not really that picky.”

“You - " He blinks and then his voice drops several octaves. “You don't mind?” he asks curiously.

“Sweetheart, if I minded I wouldn't be here in the first place. Now tell me, you want to go somewhere else to finish off what we started? Or...” You raise your hands and take a step back. “Do you want to back out?”

“Interesting,” he murmurs, and alright, it is a bit weird to hear a baritone that deep from a red-painted mouth, but hey, you'll try everything once.

“And I'm not one to boast,” you say lazily, reaching for his neck and brushing your thumb down his adam's apple. “But I've been told I'm a really good shag.”

He tilts his head. “Alright. Show me what you've got.”

You grin and pull him down into a kiss.

***

More than two years later Jim shows you a picture of the person he calls the Virgin, and you choke on your beer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Besides, Sherlock Holmes cross-dressing is canon in the books, IIRC.


	8. Hunting Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I JUST LIKE DUCKS OKAY

Jim is holding a staring contest with a duck.

It's... not exactly clear to you how this happened. But the worst part is, this isn't the weirdest thing Jim has done, not by far.

The duck squawks. Jim narrows his eyes. “Er...” you say.

“He's being  _disrespectful_.”

“It's a  _duck_ , Jim. It's got a brain the size of a marble. It probably thinks you're an exceptionally large piece of bread.”

The duck waddles a couple of steps closer to Jim, who doesn't back down. “Back off,” he says quietly. The duck raises its beak defiantly.

No, for fuck's sake, not  _defiantly_ , it's a fucking duck, and you're supposed to be the sane one here.

Even so, there's something decidedly  _crafty_  about the duck's next few steps. It stops a few inches from Jim's shoe.

“Jim, just leave it. It's too stupid to know better.”

“Then it'll just have to face the consequences,” he hisses.

He leans forward threateningly. The duck sits down on his shoe.

Alright, that  _is_ a provocation.

“See,” Jim says, looking at you. “I told you he – ” And then he freezes, expression going blank.

The duck waddles off contentedly, leaving behind a light green smear on Jim's thousand pound shoe.

“Seb?” he says, voice going weird.

“Yes?”

“Kill it. Barehanded. I want to see it  _suffer_.”

You turn and creep carefully to the duck, trying to sneak up on it from behind. The duck sticks its head under its wing, and you crouch.

Careful, now, don't be too obvious...

You lean forward.

A twig snaps under your shoe.

The ducks looks up at you. You jump. So does the duck. Unfortunately you don't have wings to follow it.

“Shoot it!' Jim screeches in the background, hopping with rage. “Kill it!”

You pull your gun and take careful aim. You miss the first time. The second time, too, and this _has never happened before._

You pull the trigger a third time. It swerves to the side at the last second, disappearing from your line of sight.

“Best marksman in the British army, are you?” Jim says sourly. “One of the most dangerous hunters the world has ever seen? Oversold your hand a bit, did you?”

“Look,” you say, fuming with shame and fury, ready to start a shouting match right here in the middle of St James'.

But then sirens start in the distance.

You both freeze and look at each other. Jim grins. “Let's hope for your sake you're better at being prey than being a hunter.”

You vault over the fence and drag Jim along with you.


	9. Checklist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my beta's fault, who commented on one of Jim's line that it made it sound "like he had a checklist or something". Which naturally set me thinking...

You pull the trigger and the man collapses.

“Excellent,” Jim says. He takes a notebook from his inside pocket and scribbles something down. You lean sideways and he tilts it to his chest, blocking your view.

“What’s that?”

“Never you mind,” he says, slipping the notebook back inside his coat.

***

When you get home you wait until Jim’s in his study and then you go to the wardrobe. You find his coat and pull out the notebook.

He’s written down some sort of list, with a line of checks on the left side.  _Political Assassination_ , one of them says, and then, in a little sublist,  _poison, sniper, fake suicide, fake car crash,_ and so on. The last one is the only one still left unchecked, and that one says  _freak sex accident_.

Your flip a couple of pages and stop when you get to a page saying in large, flower-adorned letters,  _Sex_.

With a growing feeling of foreboding you look at the bullet points.  _Toys_ , one category says.  _Locations_ , another, featuring such beauties as  _the top floor of Canary Wharf_ \- checked, that was only a couple of days ago -  _plane_ , checked too,  _the Ritz, Hyde Park, the Eiffel Tower_ \- all checked, as you know very well. The Eiffel Tower had been a challenge, though.

And on the bottom of that page,  _Houses of Parliament_.

“See anything you like?”

You jump in surprise. You were so engrossed in the list, in the perversities of Jim’s mind, that you didn’t even hear him come in.

“You want to fuck in the Palace of Westminster?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he asks innocently.

“Commons or Lords?”

“Both, obviously. Although I’d start with Lords. Who knows, maybe the peers might learn something.”

You look through the next page. “The Notre Dame? The San Marco square?  _The fucking Vatican_?”

He shrugs. “Alright, maybe some of them are a little ambitious. But you never know.”

“Right, well, I know what to expect next time we go to Italy.” You leaf through the notebook. The contents are getting more interesting by the page. And more explicit.

You pause and cock your head. “Well, I’m not doing  _that_.”

He looks over your shoulder. “Yes you will. That one’s mandatory.”

“When did you start this anyway?” you ask, closing the notebook.

“A very long time ago.” He stares in the distance, brooding, and you go quiet. “Oh, it’s evolved, changed, grown, but it was born in the fevered imagination of a bored thirteen-year old.”

“You were a very  _creative_  thirteen-year old.”

“Wasn’t I just?” His eyes focus again. “So, what do you say we start on item #147?”

You flip through the pages until you find it, and then you raise your eyebrows. “What, now?”

He bounces, beaming at you expectantly.

“Oh, fine, why not.” You throw the notebook on the bed and start unbuttoning your shirt.

Two hours later he leans over you to the nightstand, flips open his little notebook and puts down one satisfied tick.


	10. Roleplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Sarah/girlwith1oneeye, who wanted more of Seb acting. I doubt this is what she had in mind, though.
> 
> I swear I had this idea ages ago, but it became like 500 times funnier after _that_ scene in The Empty Hearse. Anyway, enjoy!

_“Just in case...”_

_“Hm?” he says, teeth at your earlobe. Making his way down._

_“I'm going to draw the line at putting on a long coat and a curly wig.”_

_“That line isn't yours to draw, darling,” he says against your neck._

_“Try me,” you say, and reach back and pull him over the back of the couch._

 ***

“I am a massive wanker,” you declare, striding up and down. “I think I know everything. I wear a long billowy coat because it makes me look dramatic and I pretend I don’t get hard when I see my doct- ”

“I have a feeling you’re not taking this seriously,” Jim says, watching you pace from the couch.

“Really?” you sneer.

“ _Seb_. Behave.”

“Oh, fine.” You close your eyes, try to get in the right headspace. It’s not that difficult: as far as you know Sherlock Holmes is simply a mix of Jim’s more boring aspects and your bog-standard entitled posh boy.

“Jim,” you say, turning around abruptly. Your long coat would be billowing right now. “You don’t mind if I call you Jim, do you?” You scrunch up your nose. “After all, we’re practically old friends.”

Jim’s eyes flicker over your face in interest. “Friends?”

“That was what all that was about, wasn’t it? The texts? The _bombs_? Just a way to catch my attention.” You give him one of Sherlock’s little superior smiles.

“And it worked, didn’t it?” Jim says, grinning, playing along.

“I’m here, yes.” You narrow your eyes. “Now what do you want?”

“What do I want?” Jim repeats softly. “Keep up, Sherlock. Shouldn’t you  _know_ that already?”

You lick your lips. Part arousal, part trepidation, right? “John stays out of this,” you say, trying to hit that right mixture of bravado and worry.

Jim grins. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not that interested in the good doctor.  _You_ , though…”

The temptation exists to make Holmes too much of a naïve idiot, but you’re better than that – plus, Jim wouldn’t be pleased if you took the obvious route.

“I’m flattered,” you say drily. You fold your hands behind your back – a mannerism you’ve seen Holmes adopt more than once in the surveillance tapes – and stroll carefully closer.

“Don’t pretend it isn’t mutual,” Jim drawls.

“The interest of a researcher towards a newly-mutated strain of bacteria.” You smile, quick and nasty. “Simply a problem waiting to be solved.”

“Really?” He stands up and moves closer. You allow your breath to hitch. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”

“It’s what I’m thinking,” you say, looking down your nose at him.

“Because I  _know_  you, Sherlock,” he whispers. “I know how you work.”

“Don’t be so sure,” you say, equally soft.

He raises his hand, almost but not quite touching. Your breath catches – your own reaction, but even bloody _Sherlock Holmes_ would react to something like this, wouldn’t he?

“I know, how your thoughts start to stray, on those long nights when your mind is too busy, too _crowded_ to allow sleep. Considering every possibility, exploring every path. It must have crossed your mind, mustn’t it? You must have _wondered._ How it would feel, my hands on you, my mouth.” He leans closer. “What it would be like to _fuck_ me?”

_Jesus_ , Jim could talk a saint into prostitution. It isn’t just the words, it’s the way he says it, full of promise, spinning images out of thin air and letting them hover between you and him.

Right, right, Holmes. What would he do? Not just succumb, not yet. Fight back, lash out, the way wild animals do when they’re cornered.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re wrong. I _despise_ you. The only circumstance where I would touch would be to take you into custody.”

Jim, very carefully, very slowly, leans in close, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “ _Liar_ ,” he breathes.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Damn, who’d have known Jim was such a good seducer? But Holmes, when would he snap? When he would finally take what he wants, give in?

Because you have very little doubt that in the back of that huge overcrowded terrifying mind baby brother Holmes is _panting_ for this.

“You’re very – very sure of yourself,” you say, just the slightest tremble in your voice. Your hands behind your back are clamped tight, nails digging into your palms.

Jim pulls back just a little and faces you again, a small superior smile on his lips. “Tell me I’m wrong.” His hand closes lightly on your nape, pulls you down a little. His head tilts. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

Fuck, that’s it. Even virginal inexperienced Sherlock would feel that need to get _close_ at this point, wouldn’t he? So you take Jim's face and smash your lips against his, as clumsily as you can.

Jim responds immediately. He’s always a bit of a violent kisser but this time it’s even worse than usual. He digs his fingers painfully into your neck and crowds you against the wall, his hipbone pressing painfully against yours. His free hand smashes into your shoulder, pinning you to the wall.

You give him a few seconds and then you push him off, stride away, wipe your mouth. You briefly consider throwing in a _I’m not gay_ , but you doubt Sherlock worries about that sort of thing.

After a moment or two of panicked breathing you whirl around and glare at Jim. He’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, smiling one of his most smug smiles.

“Well,” he says lazily. “That proves it, doesn’t it?”

Good old rational Sherlock would take the logical route, wouldn’t he? You clear your throat. “This is – proves _nothing_ , just a – a physical reaction – ”

“Sherlock,” he says calmly. It’s almost the same tone he uses on you sometimes, a cool cut-the-bullshit command. “Stop _lying_ to yourself, it’s getting embarrassing.”

You gulp in a huge breath. C’mon, Sherlock headspace. Would he really still continue denying he wants Jim? Doubtful, but he wouldn’t give in just like that either. So…

You narrow your eyes and stride back, grab his neck and kiss him again, biting down hard on his lip. He makes a delighted noise and starts pulling at your collar, presses his leg against your crotch.

“I _hate_ you,” you snarl between kisses. “You’re – you’re despicable, you’re –  _Christ._ ”

He laughs and bites your neck, pulls your belt out of the way and shoves his hand down your pants.

You sort of lose track of Sherlock’s opinions after that.

***

Afterwards you’re lying down side by side on the carpet, clothes discarded across the room – because of course you didn’t make it to the bedroom, not with Jim that excited.

“You know, I always forget how good an actor you can be,” Jim says once his breathing has slowed down enough. He rolls his head and smirks at you. “The sex wasn’t quite in character, though.”

“Sorry.” You grin back. “Did you want me to lie back like a nervous virgin on her wedding night?”

“Hmm, maybe.” He sits up and rubs at a mark on his throat. “It’s hard to predict, what he’d be like.”

“Distant.” You fold your hands behind your head. “Those who live too much inside their own head always are. Too calculated, rational. Cold.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Is that a comment on my performance, by any chance?”

“Well, you were at first,” you say easily. “Still are, sometimes. Normal people get lost in sex, you know.”

He snorts, contempt evident in his expression. “You certainly do.”

You sit up as well. “And I doubt Sherlock would, is my point. Or not that easily, at least.”

“You’re the expert?” Jim asks dryly.

You crack your neck and give him a patient look. “I’m just saying that I’ve fucked a rather _large_ amount of people, and that his type – or _similar_ to him, yes yes, I know, he’s a special little snowflake,” you add in response to Jim’s sceptical expression. “What I meant to say is that the constantly-analysing types don’t suddenly stop analysing just ‘cause their dick’s gone hard. Or cunt gone wet, scrap whichever is applicable.”

He tilts his head. The sneer has disappeared, it seems like he’s actually taking your advice. Well, maybe he should, you far outmatch him when it comes to sexual experience.

“Take my time;” he says. “That’s what you’re saying?”

You shrug. “Basically. There is a point where _anyone_ would stop thinking. Or, look, maybe he won’t. I’m just going on previous experience, and that includes you, for the record.”

He hums. “You may have a point. But I won’t know – ”

“Until you’ve actually got him with his trousers ‘round his ankles, whenever that may be.” You hop up and give him a hand up. “ _Is_ that ever going to happen, anyway?”

“Maybe, maybe not. It would be…” He smiles, slowly, the planning-predator-spotting-a-prey one. “Entertaining.”

You give him a grin. “Just remember to film the entire thing, if you ever get around to it.”

He focuses back on you. “Pervert.”

“I’m not the one who brought up roleplay.”

“As if you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Didn’t say _that_.”

He winks at you. “You’re still the best entertainment of them all, darling. Go on, get dressed, stop distracting me.” He turns around and leaves for the bedroom. 

You give his back a considering look, still a little giddy. Well, why not?

“You’re distracted that easily?” you say in Sherlock’s clipped tones, with Sherlock’s disapproving expression. “I’m disappointed, _Jim_.”

He freezes and glares over his shoulder at you. “Shut it.”

“You really aren’t that worthy a nemesis," you continue gleefully.

“ _Seb_.”

“Now _Magnussen_ , there’s a – ”

“Seb, I mean it. Shut up.”

“Or Irene Adler, now she was a chall- ”

“I’m putting you in a wig next time.”

Your mouth clamps shut. “Right. Sorry. Shutting up now.”

"You better." He turns on his heel and leaves the room, grinning widely.

" _Wouldn't say no to the coat, though,_ " you yell after him.

He flips you the finger over his shoulder.

 


	11. Marathon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was a time, in those few first heated months, when the two of you fucked on-and-off for pretty much the entire night, filling the time inbetween with comfortable silences and tracing each other's scars and bones and skin […]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for prompt: "In the last chapter you mentioned how in the beginning of their relationship Jim and Sebastian would just kind of marathon sex all night with cuddle breaks in between and stuff. I would like to see that because i am a perv."

 

Jim is lying down next to you, face down, arm flung out and hand dangling over the edge of the bed. You could be excused for thinking he’s dead, if it weren’t for the occasional tiny moans he keeps making.

Not that you’re much better. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for at least a solid five minutes before you could even manage to think in sentences. Speaking ain’t gonna happen any time soon.

You’re _exhausted_.

Jim groans, a lot louder than before. You rumble something wordless back, he _hmphs_ in return, and that’s about it in terms of communication for the night.

Sleep is dancing at the edge of your mind, but something is still keeping you awake. Overdose of endorphins, maybe. No person is made to endure that much happy hormones. How many times did you…?

Eight. No, nine, he managed to sneak in another one when you were still recovering, absolutely fucking _sure_ you weren’t getting it up again within the next hour, but that wasn’t taking Jim and his scary levels of determination into consideration.

Nine orgasms in one go. Christ.

He makes another tiny smacking noise. You turn your head, watch him. His back is covered in long scratches and smattered with bruises, and there’s a vicious-looking bitemark at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. All the visible traces of what seems like an eternity spent in utter debauchery.

You’re pretty sure that by all rights, you should be dead by now.

You turn your head, squint. Something – light? From the window.

But it’s night. Why, then…

You open your mouth, run your tongue over your swollen lips, then say, “Whff lie?”

“Mmf?”

You blink up at the ceiling, try again. “Why is there light?”

There we go. Grammatically correct sentence, you should be proud of yourself.

“Wha’?” Jim groans.

“Light. Windows. Why?”

Jim rolls over. From the front he looks even worse: mouth wet and red, corners friction-torn, several marks of varying size on his throat and shoulder, and hair an utter sweaty mess. Even his eyes – usually razor sharp, giving the impression of observing and assessing in everything, anything – look unfocused, sleepy.

“Light,” you say helpfully, and even manage to wave a hand at the windows.

Jim pushes up onto his elbow, peers at something out of your sight, then laughs. “Because it’s seven AM, apparently.”

You run the words through your head, try to make them mean something. “I…”

“It’s fine,” Jim says, voice slightly hoarse but otherwise sounding remarkably put-together. “I hadn’t had anything planned for today anyway, so we can sleep in. Recuperate.”

“Hang on, hang on.” You frown. “You mean we…”

“Yes,” Jim says, eyes lit up with delight.

“The entire fucking _night_?” You push up to your elbows, brain startled into relative functionality again.

Jim grins. “Pun unintended?”

“Christ.” You fall back.

Jim lies back too, his hands folded behind his head. The smirk on his face is a particularly smug one, and even though you’re absolutely fucking knackered, seeing him like that is…

Jim looks at you, raises his eyebrows, then looks down. “Sebastian,” he says, appreciatively. “You beast. Still haven’t had enough?”

“I have, actually,” you say quickly. “Really, just – just let this go down. I don’t think I _can_ , again.”

“No,” Jim says. He rolls over and straddles your legs. “That would be an utter waste.”

“Jim, don’t – _fuck_.”

He puts his arms across your hips to keep you from moving and his mouth closes over your cock.

It would be easier if he weren’t so bloody good at this. If he weren’t, you could just kick him off without a second’s hesitation, but as it is, with his lips closed warm and wet and with perfect pressure around your cock and his thumb pressing lightly just above your hole, it’s…

Well, put simply, the part of you going _well, why not?_ completely overrides the more common sense one of _this one is pushing it, really_.

Jim swallows. You throw your hand back and grab hold of the headboard. Your palm still hurts from time – six? seven? – when he had rimmed you for what felt like fucking hours and you’d held onto the spiky headboard so hard it pierced your skin.

You mostly remember because afterwards he spent at least ten minutes tenderly licking the wound.

“Jim,” you gasp. “I swear, I can’t – ”

He pulls off and looks up, irritated. “Will you stop _whinging_?”

“You don’t know what this – ”

“Just shut up and lie back.” And he returns to your cock.

You squeeze your eyes shut. He didn’t come as much as you did, but Jim… He’s not nearly as used to sex as you are, is he? Does that make it better or worse?

His fingers abruptly push inside. You curse, jolt. Three, maybe even four, but at this stage you’ve been fucked so bloody _thoroughly_ he could practically fist you without even needing any extra lube.

He sucks, his tongue swipes at the head of your cock, and for a second you’re almost there –

And then it fades, tantalisingly out of reach. You curse and kick against the mattress, only barely avoiding kneeing Jim in the face.

He sits up, frowns. “What?”

“I genuinely think I just – _can’t_.” Your voice is hoarse, breathless. Must be all the loud moaning you’ve done through the night, the occasional screaming. Wreaks havoc on a man’s vocal chords, being fucked like that.

“Used up, are you?” Jim sneers. “Already?”

“ _Already_?” you say disbelievingly. “What the hell is that – _nine fucking times_ , Jim. You’re fucking lucky I haven’t had a fucking heart attack yet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Please. You’re in excellent physical condition, you’re hardly going to perish from a little sex.”

“A _little sex_?” you splutter indignantly, but before you can continue that line of thought Jim’s got his fingers around your cock.

“Calm down,” he says, hand slowly working up and down. “Panicking about this isn’t going to help anything.”

You fall back on the mattress. “You’re not going to stop, are you?”

“No,” he says gleefully.

You cover your face with your hands, grit your teeth. His hand, it’s – it’s good, but it’s also almost overstimulation, forcing you to the edge of orgasm without you being able to cross it and it’s, fuck, it’s _torture_.

You breathe out deeply, try to regain some control, but then his thumb pushes back against your foreskin and it’s too much and before you know it your hand is around his wrist.

Jim gives you a death glare. You slowly pull your fingers back.

“I thought I told you to lie back?” Jim says smoothly.

“Yeah, but…” You take a deep breath. “I think you need to – need to ease up a bit. If you insist on going through with this. Because this isn’t – this isn’t working.”

He cocks his head, and yeah, there’s the focus again. Christ, you’ve really not got the energy left to deal with this.

You lie back down. Jim mercifully releases his grip on your cock. He crawls up and lies down half on top of you, then grabs your neck and pulls you in for a kiss.

Funny, really. You’d think that after everything he did to you in the course of this night, something as relatively innocent as a kiss would leave you unmoved.

It doesn’t.

You moan and run your fingers through his hair, messing it up even further. It’s a testament to how far he’s gone that he doesn’t even protest, just angling his head into your touch. His teeth tug gently at your tender bottom lip. His tongue touches yours.

Your cock twitches.

“There,” he says softly, so close you can feel his warm breath against your wet lips. “That better?”

You nod, slightly speechless.

He sits up and crouches over you, gives you a _look_ , then leans down again to get his mouth on your cock.

It’s hardly your first blowjob. You’ve had lots of people, and a fair few of them were good to excellent.

So why does this feel so…

Jim makes a small humming sound that seems to vibrate straight through your cock, and you have another one of those almost-but-completely-not-there experiences. You fist the sheets and sob.

Jim pulls off briefly to _shush_ at you, then goes back to work. You look down at him.

He looks so – so pleased. Comfy. Like he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be, which is absurd because it’s _Jim_ , he could have anyone and anything, he could be taking over whole countries and instead he’s here in this bed sucking your cock like he’s –

“Oh _fuck_.” Your head falls back, teeth clenched, eyes closed. “Please,” you mutter, hips twitching uncontrollably, this fucking close but still not fucking enough, “please, please, please please _please_ – ”

And the bastard uses his teeth.

It hurts, but not really, not enough to mess with the other stuff and Christ, is this, is this gonna be –

_Yes._

It’s relief, of course, so strong that your eyes get all teary, your hips thrusting up uncontrollably, but the pleasure of it is so messed up it just cycles back around to pain, which of course sets off a whole other chain of reactions…

You pretty much white out.

When your mind start working again, you’re still on your back, but the weight on your legs is gone. “Jim?”

A noise. You roll your head to see Jim, kneeling next to you. He scrunches up his nose and spits in a tissue. “Hardly a mouthful.”

“I’m surprised I’ve got anything _left_.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Christ. Wasn’t there some – some folk belief? About semen being life energy?”

“Are you calling me an incubus, Sebastian?”

“Sex demon?” You glare at him. “Yeah, basically.”

He laughs and sits up, leaning back against the headboard. You simply stare at him for a moment or two, drinking in the way he looks, weirdly soft, relaxed and messy and satisfied.

He runs his hand through his hair, then rubs absently at his mouth. You never really noticed how full his lips are, how soft-looking. But as nice as they are to look at, you've got to strain your neck to keep his face in view and it's starting to hurt. So you let your head fall back again, and fix your eyes on the first part of him that catches your attention.

It takes a moment before you realise what you’re looking at.

“So, er,” you say carefully. “Want me to…?”

“Hm?” He blinks, follows your gaze to his crotch, then smiles. “Congratulations, Seb.”

“I feel very flattered. So…”

“I feel like fucking you,” he says, eyes closed.

“Er...” You blink. “We’ve run out of condoms.”

He cracks one eye open. “Really?”

“Yeah. And the lube’s on its last remnants too.”

He runs his hand over his face. “I only just bought a new bottle.”

“What can I say? We’ve needed a lot of lubrication lately.” You roll onto your stomach. “Although, to be honest, right now I could probably take it without.”

“Bareback and spit,” Jim mutters. A strange little shiver runs down your spine – not quite desire, or not the sexual kind, anyway, but something…

Then Jim shakes his head. “Tempting, but I doubt I can manage the energy. Unless you’re feeling bouncy.”

“I am very emphatically not feeling bouncy.” You push up onto your elbows. “Hand or mouth?”

Jim squints at his crotch. “How clean – ”

“Ehh.” You shrug. “It’ll do. I took a washcloth to your crotch last time, right?”

“Oral it is, then.”

There was a shower, at one point. After time three, something like that? Although the shower itself had degenerated into round four.

Not that you mind being dirty that much. Nor, it seems, does Jim. Surprisingly. He’s something of a neat freak in all other areas, but apparently sex is the –

“ _Seb_.” Jim snaps his fingers in front of your nose. “Don’t fall asleep on me now.”

“Fine, fine.” You push up a little, then lean down into his lap and take his cock into your mouth. He immediately takes hold of your hair.

This night has been enlightening in more ways than just one. Sex with Jim so far had been be hurried, desperate and aggressive and leaving very little time for any experimentation from your part. But tonight, after the first time he’d come, you’v had plenty of opportunity to try out things, check his reactions, and for once take your time with him.

Although, if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s how changeable he really is. A thing that can make him moan one time will have him kick you off the next time, with no logic or warning behind it. Or something he literally orders you to do turns out to be a no-go only minutes later. There’s no tricks, nothing you can fall back on; you just need to constantly observe and adjust.

Not that you mind.

“ _God_ ,” Jim gasps as you take his cock deep. “That’s, it’s, I get what you mean.”

You give him an ironic look and he grins wide, and whoops, there’s that shiver again, butterflies in your stomach. Not about sex, because you have been thoroughly and completely fucked-out now. Something else.

Christ, you’re in deep.

You close your eyes and push the thoughts away, focus on nothing but the physical, the feeling of Jim’s cock going fully hard in your mouth, his fingers in your hair, the skin sliding against your lips…

Feeling vengeful, you draw your lips back and run your teeth very lightly over the exposed head of his cock. Jim instantly grabs your neck and pulls you off, breathing hard.

His cock is twitching, looking oddly desperate.

“Too much?” you ask innocently.

“You’re in luck I’m too tired to handle a knife right now,” Jim gasps.

“I know.” You lie down, resting your head on his thigh, and briefly close your eyes. “I think I’m going to sleep for four days after this.”

“Drink at least five litres of water,” Jim mumbles. His eyes are closed and he’s leaning back, breathing through it.

“That too. Burn the sheets?”

“Buy a new bed.”

You grin. The bed broke during round five, the cracking of the frame the only warning before the legs gave out and the two of you landed heavily on each other, suddenly six inches closer to the floor then you were before.

“Shame,” you say. “I think I’ve got sentimental attachment to this one.”

“The marks of your nails are still on the headboard,” Jim says dreamily. “From our first time. Remember?”

“Yeah.”

He drops his hand to your neck and starts playing with the hair at the nape of your neck. “You need a haircut.”

“What, _now_?”

He scratches his nails down. “Don’t be a smartarse.”

“You like it when I’m a smartarse.”

“Time and a place.” His thumb rubs slow circles into the muscle of your neck. You make a contented noise. “So that was – eleven?”

“Thought it was ten.” You run it through your mind. The first time, then that blowjob, then he fucked you and the shower happened, after that you switched, so that’s – five? When the bed broke. Then the Rimjob From Hell, and he definitely went down on you twice, one too quickly after the other, so that’s eight. And there was handjob somewhere too, but you can’t remember when. And then now. So where’s number eleven?

“Against the bathroom door,” Jim says, “when you collapsed after. Remember?”

“Oh, right. That one.” You frown. “Wait, how did you – can you actually read minds now?”

“You were mumbling.”

“Oh.”

Jim laughs. “Fucked your brains out, have I?”

“Yep.”

“Hope it’s not permanent.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” you say, eyes closed. “You’ve fucking ruined me. And you’ve spoiled me for anyone else too, I am _never_  - Christ, this is surreal.” You open your eyes again. “The entire _night_?”

“We made it to the bed around – midnight?” Jim says, thoughtfully. “And now it’s seven. So that’s almost one orgasm every thirty minutes, on average. Not that spectacular, is it?”

You snort. “Yeah, right.”

He runs his hand down your back, fingers splayed. “Don’t sulk. I’m very impressed with your stamina.”

You roll your head, look at him. “Really?”

“Mm-hm. I know perfectly well there aren’t many who could’ve done what you did – or, well…” He pulls a face. “Not with quite as much enthusiasm, anyway.”

“Hurray for me.” You close your eyes. “How many did you have?”

“Didn’t keep count, did you?”

“Brains. Fucked out. Cut me some slack.”

“Just this once.” He shifts, then says, “This is going to be number seven.”

“So one every hour?” you ask, smiling. “You're gonna have to step up.”

He pinches your side and you yelp, twist away from him, but he grabs your shoulder and pulls you back, so you end up curled up half across his lap. It’s comfortable, especially when he starts petting your back. His hands are warm, his touches careful, fingertips first running over a scar, then tracing the bottom of your ribcage.

He’s been doing that a lot, this night. Post-coital snuggling, except it’s less cuddles and more just – stroking. Sculptor forming clay kinda thing. Like he’s so pleased with having you he can’t stop touching you.

It’s a nice thought.

And he didn’t mind you reciprocating either. By now, you’ve got a highly detailed map of Jim’s body. You know every scar, every curve, every ticklish spot and every jutting bone. You could recognise him with your eyes closed, now. By touch. By smell, even, by the sweat-and-sex scent that’s been hanging in the room for quite a while, now.

There’s something almost animal about this all.

“Do you think you could make it to twelve?” Jim asks suddenly.

“No,” you say. “And that’s a genuine assessment of my current state, by the way, I’m not just being rebellious.”

“I know. Just wondering.”

“Nothing’s happening until I get at least an hour or two of sleep.”

“Mmhm.” He squeezes your arm. “Speaking of things happening…”

You push up and eye his cock. “You good?”

He nods.

You lower your head and take him back in your mouth. Jim hisses and his nails leave long painful trails along your back – another set for the collection. Thank Christ his nails are short, otherwise your back would have been in tatters by now.

Jim Moriarty, as it turns out, is not just a biter but a scratcher, too.

You lean your forearm on his thigh and simply start sliding up and down, tongue flat. You can feel him tremble, at his thigh and stomach, and hear his heavy irregular breathing.

“Don’t – ” he gasps. “Don’t draw it out.”

You close your eyes again, let everything else fade out and just focus on Jim. His reactions, his breathing, the precome on your tongue, his hand on your neck, so attuned that it almost feels like you’re the one getting blown here, like you can feel each of your touches yourself.

“Seb…” he chokes, fingers going tight.

You’d smile, if you didn’t have your mouth full of his cock. But that’s it, pure joy, as he arches off the bed and comes with a small, controlled noise, as he falls back, panting, hand still in your hair, as you swallow down the last of his come and pull off for breath.

“Okay,” he says, still breathless. “That’s…”

“Good?” You roll over and rest your head on his stomach. His hand falls heavily on your head.

“Yes.”

You look up. His eyes are closed, and he’s smiling.

Your stomach does that flip again. It's stupid, and amazing, and something that you'd genuinely never have expected to feel, and yet here it is. Here you are. Fucking happier than you can remember ever being.

He pinches your ear. “Stop brooding and go close the curtains.”

You groan, but roll off the bed all the same. Your legs are painfully wobbly, you barely make it to the window without stumbling.

Once there, you lean your shoulder against the window and look down. The commuters are coming out, ordinary people living their ordinary lives. A guy with a briefcase in a suit, a mother herding two young children along, tourists dragging too-big bags behind them and blocking the pavement…

You pull the curtains closed. They’re thick, almost black-out quality, and the room immediately delves into dark shadowy gloom. It takes a moment before your eyes adjust again.

But then you smile.

Jim is curled onto his side, sheets only half covering him. His chest is moving slowly, his are eyes closed, mouth slight open, and his hand is curled loosely on the pillow, next to his cheek.

You carefully get back to the bed and pull the sheets up to Jim's neck, then crawl in yourself. Jim makes a small noise but doesn’t look, doesn’t talk. You turn onto your side, your back to him, trying to avoid the wet spot – or spots, more likely.

A moment later you feel his warm hand on your hip, which slides down until you’ve got his arm around your waist. You take his hand. He makes another small noise and his head comes to rest between your shoulder blades. You close your eyes.

You fall asleep with the smile still on your lips.


End file.
